


Watching Falling Stars

by Phoenixflames12



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Book: The Magician's Nephew, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22789912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflames12/pseuds/Phoenixflames12
Summary: After the horror of his experiences in the war, Digory Kirke tries to hold onto the memories of Narnia
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	Watching Falling Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Before Daybreak](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334341) by [Miss M (missm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M). 



They rarely talk about their adventures afterwards, although Digory thinks about it often- letting those long-ago feelings of warmth and unexpected courage flow through him when he is at his weakest.

When they turn sixteen, Polly catches the eye of one of the boys from school and soon she is seen walking out with a soft smile glistening on her lips and a bounce in her curls.

Sometimes Digory wonders if, like him, she dreams of a new world rising out of a fresh new dawn and a parade of animals bowing before their king and queen as they waited to be named.

After school, she enrols in a secretarial college and learns how to type, to take shorthand, her pen flying like a small black bird across the page.

During the war, she enrolled as a journalist covering the news that had come in drips from France, each casualty list longer and more gruesome than the last.

After he had returned from the front, shaking with shock and undiagnosed trench fever, she had sat by his bedside and had held his hand; silently, bravely holding back her tears and willing him to come back to her.

It had not occurred to him then, in the grip of his delirium where he had dreamed of silver apples and a wild woman with a mane of flaming curls whipping a strawberry roan carriage horse through the cobbled streets, that he was dreaming of Narnia.

He had wept then, she had told him later, and she with him, the silver thread of their memories pulled taut against the force of their shared pain.

This will be the bond that keeps strong and true throughout their life, a bond that shimmers and dances through shared glances over teacups and across drawing rooms as the light slowly begins to return to his mother’s little London flat.

His mother begins to put flowers in chipped, two penny vases by the parlour window and her smile slowly starts to strengthen. Her face no longer looks like it is made of glass, able to shatter at any hard blow and for that Digory is grateful, though a small, hidden part of him wonders how long it will last.

Slowly, he goes back to his books, finding solace in theology- thinking of the Lion’s song that had filled with his heart and deafened his ears with its’ strength and splendour. The strength of a song that had sung a world into being.

During the four years that he is away, the books wait and wilt, unused and heavy with dust and when he returns, he finds that he cannot find comfort within them.

They speak of a world that Is so contrary to the one that he inhabits, one that is drenched in blood and sorrow and suffering- a world so different from the one that he remembers speaking of peace and hope and the newness of life.

When he is finally strong enough to go home, he burns his uniform in a brazier in the little back garden, pulling hard on a cigarette- his breaths long and ragged as the flames leap and crackle against wool and khaki and the clinging stench of death and sweat.

He will never be truly able to rid himself of that smell.

It clings to him in his darkest moments, burying itself under his fingernails, clogging his throat until it is impossible to breathe.

It is in these moments that he remembers the lion.

Remembers the glimmer of a soft, dark eye that is brimming with wisdom and understanding, but still holds a shiver of wildness.

Oftentimes, huddled up in the dugout and listening to the wail of the shells thudding over No Man’s Land, the flash of explosions light up behind his eyes, he thinks he can hear the distant echo of his roar.

Remembers in dark, damp world of mud and death that had been his reality for so long, the soft echoes of a voice that had been deeper and safer than the darkest depths of the sea itself, reaching out through the darkness.

_‘Look through the valleys, the green places, and fly through them. There will always be a way through.’_

Years later, sitting in the leather-bound safety of his study surrounded by years of scholarship, he can still hear the echo of that roar.

Can hear it through the pounding of his heart in his ears as the names and bodies of his battalion float before his eyes, the men caught like broken marionettes on the wire, their eyes bulging into milky blindness as they drowned slowly under mustard gas.

‘ _Do not be afraid Digory, Lord of Narnia. You were witness to the destruction and recreation of my world. All is not lost. Be just and merciful and brave, my boy. Always. All is not lost.’_

Those words stay with him for a long time, burning steadily in his heart until four children enter his world, hurt and confusion and anguish blazing in their eyes.

They tumble through the wardrobe, unsure and sceptical of what they will find, the great lion’s words blaze into life and finally, finally he understands.

* * *

_**Fin** _

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
> 
> Much love and enjoy x


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